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Sons of Gildor Part I
Part 2 Part 3 It was late March on the King’s Road north to Gildor. Wet snow drifted down in gentle flurries and nestled into Maerwynn’s eyelashes. Despite her cloak and fur, the ice-cold flakes managed to crawl into her armor and melt upon her neck. She wished nothing more than to rip the clouded sky open and force the sun upon her with a very long chain and a smile. Afore her rode her Knight of the crown: Ser Destrian of the Shining Armor. He was her master, teacher and protector. Since the ceremony of her graduation from page to squire, Maerwynn had hardly left his side. She had not seen her family for more than a few days at a time for the last 12 years. Still, she did not want for another life, for this was her chosen path. She would make the Seven proud. She would make her family proud. They had turned off the main road some many hours ago, with breakfast long since digested and the sores of saddle riding flaring up. Maerwynn was no stranger to discomfort now. “Maerwynn,” Destrian called, turning his rugged, handsome head to see her snot-caked face. “How fare you on this ride?” “Well,” she said, flummoxed by the snow in her red curls, “I can’t right feel my face, nor my ass, for wildly different reasons.” “Maerwynn,” Destrian said with a course bite in his tongue, “A Knight of Gildor does not say ‘ass’.” Maerwynn shrunk inside herself. “Of course, seven pardons, my Lord.” Destrian smiled like a fox and said, “We say shitter.” Maerwynn giggled to herself. Despite her prolonged exposure to this man for some many years, it was only recently that he began to act more friendly towards her; less a teacher and master, more a companion. Were it not outrageously inappropriate Maerwynn may have allowed herself to develop feelings of deep fondness for Destrian. Whatever attraction she had to him, however, was only a distraction. She was on the long and perilous road to knighthood and serving the Gildorian crown. She would not let idle fancies steer her wrong. “I do believe,” Destrian said, “you may need to put your crossbow to work soon. I’m famished, as I’m sure you are. A little quail or rabbit might do us good, yes?” “Oh Gods, yes,” Maerwynn exclaimed. “Just please, enough of the riding.” “Hold on, I believe I see it,” Destrian said, pointing his armored finger north up the road. Maerwynn looked up from the mangled mane of her horse and squinted. Against the gray backdrop of overcast sky she saw the spire of Gildorian masonry. As the two sojourners rounded a bend in the road, the fading hillside gave way to the visage of a humble water mill. The river, recently thawed, flowed free from frozen holes and churned the oaken wheel to make it sing. Vines coursed up the sides of unkempt stone and dug their fingers into the cracks of age and neglect. This was an ancient building. “About bloody time,” Maerwynn said in hush. She then saw men; rugged groups of two and three, swinging axes at fresh hewn wood. Their attire was lowborn, though she was surprised that anyone would live here at all. “Maerwynn,” Destrian said as he reared up his horse to match her pace. “Take the horses to the river and allow them to drink. I will go inside and inform our host of our arrival.” Maerwynn nodded and dismounted. As Destrian left her side she felt the cold return. Not the snow, but the gazes of the men around her. It was not the usual look, the one fueled by lust and desire that she so often attracted from noble oafs and pompous princes. Rather, it was a look of mistrust. Peasants and commoners of Gildor had always respected the knights of the land, certainly those of their own country. But times had changed. Maerwynn was ascending her trials at a time when the crown was in turmoil and royalty and nobility were mistrusted and equated with greed and lies. She paid them no mind and took her horses to the river. There they stopped and drank large gulps of icy water, their lips dribbling with delight. Maerwynn kissed her horse, Sorrowsweet, and pressed against her shoulder. Maerwynn parted her lips and began to softly sing: Hîr in Vanessi, beriagir men, Odo calad, annagir belain, Im er adan, Cin in hên Yav, Tanagir ammen I té na Jerua (Lords of the Vanessi, protect us, Seven of Light, grant divine strength, I am only human, You are the children of Yav, Show us the way to Jerua) “You have a lovely voice,” said a man from cover of shade. Maerwynn turned, surprised he had come so close to her without her knowing. Not even Sorrowsweet had stirred, and she was a girl of timid temperament. “Where did you learn to speak the Sylvan tongue?” The cloaked man said, stepping out of the darkness of the embankment. “It is a part of my training as a knight,” Maerwynn said. She studied the cadence of the stranger as he approached her. Tall, confident, strong. Beneath the veil of wool and fur she saw a chiseled face as cold as steel framed by midnight hair. The other men paid him no mind; he must have been one of their number grabbing a drink from the river. She relaxed at this thought and eased away from the sword at her side. “A knight of Gildor?” He said. “Then I am honored to make your acquaintance, Ser…?” “Maerwynn,” she stuttered, “but please, I am no knight yet. I serve Ser Destrian until my time as a squire is completed.” The hooded man stood taller at mention of the name. “Then I see the time has come,” he said, removing the hood from his head. Maerwynn saw his face clearly now. He was certainly a beautiful man. Sharp eyes belied a gentle aura that buffered his approach. Maerwynn felt herself blush. What good graces of the Gods had she warranted to be surrounded by such lovely fair? “My lady Maerwynn,” the man said, stroking the black stubble that coated his face, “what have you there upon the saddle of that horse? I recognize the seal of Gildor.” Maerwynn followed the man’s gaze to Destrian’s horse, Steel. Upon his back was fitted a large satchel, some four and half feet in length and cylindrical. The package was bound in supple leather and swung gently against Steel’s side. A metal clasp, fashioned in the form a wolf’s head, bound the strappings tight. “Oh,” Maerwynn said, “that is Destrian’s charge. He is bringing that package to someone very special, though a humble squire cannot say who that may be. I don’t even know what it is, my lord… uh,” she faltered. “Forgive me, I never caught your name.” The man approached as a wind and smiled. “My name is Darshia Whitefang.” She choked. As her eyes widened, Destrian emerged from the mill with several knights behind him. “Maerwynn,” he called. “The package.” She turned now to see her master, her mouth agape. “Yes, my lord?” She managed to mutter. “It’s for him,” Destrian said, motioning to Darshia. She turned back now, seeing him for the first time; truly seeing him. He waltzed passed her, putting a firm hand on her armored shoulder. As he made to undo the clasp, Maerwynn put her hand over his. “Please,” she said, feelings warring inside her stomach, “allow me.” As her hands began to unclasp the leather satchel she allowed herself a moment to think. This is the fugitive, Darshia Whitefang, self-titled heir to the throne of Gildor and criminal to the crown. Destrian, her master, was helping him. Was this a trap? Should she follow Destrian or Nashuss? A test of some sort? Was this really the Whitefang prince? The satchel fell into her arms and she allowed herself to feel its dimensions for the first time: something metal, something long. Destrian came and stood beside his squire. With deft hands he transferred the package from Maerwynn’s grip to his own and unraveled the leather. The sun revealed two swords. The longer of the two weapons, a beautiful silver claymore, Destrian gave to Darshia. As Darshia pulled it from its scabbard and held it to the light, his smile grew into a bold laugh. “It is not the blade of the Elves that you are used to,” Destrian said, “but it is what I was instructed to make. Every detail is as requested. You were extremely generous with your funds, I could have fielded an army for the cost of this one blade.” The sword gleamed with a brilliant blue hue. The cross-form quillons were strong yet elegant; the hilt was wrapped in golden tones and set with aquamarines. The pommel bore the ferocious visage of a wolf on the hunt. Upon the base of the blade was etched a small engraving: Ion in erain Lancerus. “Son of the Kings of Lancerus,” Darshia said with a humbled smile. “Let us hope I am worthy of such a title.” “If you don’t mind, Darshia,” Destrian said, hands still clasping the other blade, “I would like a moment alone with my squire.” Darshia nodded, giving a small nod of thanks to Maerwynn as well, before turning to test his blade in the clearing. “I am sure you are confused,” Destrian said. Maerwynn chortled, her nose still plugged from the cold. “Aye, a right damned state of things I find myself in now, my lord.” Destrian smiled and said, “I offer you a choice. As of now I have consorted with Darshia Whitefang. That makes me an enemy to the crown, to the ideals of your family… you do not have to follow me any longer.” “Destrian…” “Let me speak,” he said, putting his hand upon her plated chest over her heart. “You may leave if you wish, and I will consider your oaths fulfilled.” He extended the other sword towards her. “I have made a choice, I will not ask you to follow me into despair, if that is where this road leads.” “This,” Maerwynn said, “this is my?” “Yes,” Destrian said with gentle eyes, “your knight’s arm.” She looked down at the sheathed weapon. It was beautiful. Gentle gold inlays in the hilt wove patterns reflecting the name of her house. Knowing that this sword was hers made it even more gorgeous. “But I am not of age, my time as your squire is still two years out from completion!” Destrian laughed. “There are kings at war, monsters ravaging our borders and gods bound in flesh. I have lost the time to care over such trivial things as tradition. Whether you stay or go is your decision; just know that whichever you choose, this sword is yours, Ser Maerwynn.” She felt herself tear up. The liquid cooled her eyes and made it hard to see her master’s kind face. “You bastard,” she said, failing to hold back the sobs, “giving me a choice like that.” Destrian pulled her close and wrapped his arms around her in tight embrace. She cried into his cloak for what seemed an age of men. When she backed away all she had left was a choice. He placed the sword in her hand. “Make the choice when you are ready,” he said. “Seven guide you, Ser Maerwynn.” He returned to the mill, leaving Maerwynn alone with her sword and her decision. ......... It was not 10 minutes later that upon the clearing did Maerwynn return. Destrian and Darshia conversed there still, two other men standing in the huddle. As Destrian turned to see his friend, it was not the visage he had expected. “Darshia!” Destrian said, flinging his body in front of the Whitefang prince. A crossbow bolt sailed through the air, piercing Destrian in the chest where once Darshia had stood. The others turned to see Maerwynn, crossbow aimed, her face contorted in tears and shock. “Destrian,” she said. As her body froze in terror, she had no time to see Darshia’s new sword sail through the air and straight into her neck. Spine severed, her body crumpled like rotten wood. Her head rolled into the river and became food for fish. Darshia looked over Destrian; the bolt had pierced his breastplate and rammed itself deep into the body. At such close range, there was little hope for the knight’s survival. “Make him comfortable,” Darshia said. The two other men grabbed Ser Destrian and carefully carried him inside the water mill. Darshia, alone in the clearing, walked to his sullied blade and pulled it from the blood-soaked dirt near Maerwynn’s corpse. “Unquala weeps,” Darshia said, praying for the red-haired girl. He felt a cold hollowness overtake him. He wanted to feel sad for her. He did not need for want, as tears came readily to his eyes. No matter how many he slew, no matter how many bodies he buried, it never became easy. He wished he could become numb to sorrow as he had heard so many soldiers do. Such is the way of the warrior prince; to fight and to love. “I have thought of a name for this sword,” Darshia said to no one, examining the crimson edge with eyes as red as fire. So Darshia did return to the mill, the sword Maerwynn at his side, to begin his plans to reclaim the Throne of Gildor. Category:World Lore